


Werewolf

by ScripStrel



Series: Stagedorks [3]
Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Banter, Blood, But it's not gory, F/M, Fluff, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Post-Squip, Sickfic, Vomiting, it's late and I have no good tags, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 16:23:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15822588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScripStrel/pseuds/ScripStrel
Summary: Christine feels like she's being eaten alive from the inside.Jeremy is doing what he can to be a good boyfriend.Not nearly as dramatic as it sounds.





	Werewolf

Christine sits back against the wall, sprawled on the bathroom floor, waiting to see if anything else is coming up. Or if she’ll have to get back on the toilet. So much for painkillers. She really should’ve expected this when the mere idea of food made her nauseous. Well, it usually does on days like this, especially in the morning, but it doesn’t usually stop her from choking some down so that the Advil won’t eat through her stomach lining or whatever. Why exactly are you not supposed to take medicine on an empty stomach?

Whatever. Her mouth tastes like bile and half-dissolved pills, which is really not pleasant, but honestly, she doesn’t care. Her eyelids are heavy. Even as she’s propped up on the cold tile, she starts to doze. No, nope. Not happening. Not here. She has places to be.

But her gut clenches again as she hoists herself up. Her head swims and _oh,_ that’s not pleasant, either. Of course, _that’s_ probably the most familiar part of this whole ordeal. Not the head swimming. The other thing. The thing that she should really be used to by now. She _is_ used to it, but that doesn’t make it any better every time it happens.

Her reflection in the mirror doesn’t look nearly as awful as she feels, which is probably a good thing. For all its stigmas, this isn’t new. This isn’t unusual. Billions of people are in the same boat, going about their lives. Really, if every person who has to deal with this actually looks like they’re shredding themselves from the inside, which it sure feels like, the world would be very different. Probably better, actually. Maybe then people would take it seriously. Maybe then it wouldn’t have to be this taboo thing that you can’t actually talk about. Maybe then it would be normal to call in sick or even just to be able to go to the bathroom when you need to. And maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to go about your day like nothing’s wrong.

Speaking of which, Christine has to be somewhere in like half an hour.

Something gurgles in her belly again, and another stabbing pain shoots through her.

Okay, nope. Nevermind.

Pointedly ignoring the tightness in her throat, she pulls out her phone and texts Jeremy, fingers weak but steady.

 _Hey,_ she types, _I’m superrrr sorry about this but I woke up feeling gross and I don’t think I can make it._

_I really hope it’s not a problem and I’m really really sorry._

_Love you, see you on monday!_

Christine doesn’t want to let herself worry about it more than that. Yeah, Jeremy will probably send half a dozen frantic messages ranging from concern to reassurance, and yeah, she doesn’t want to stress him out, especially because Jeremy’s always been a bit of a mother hen. He really babies her sometimes. She _could_ tell him the details. It’s not like she caught a mystery bug. She’s not going to turn into a zombie.

(Thank goodness, because she wasn’t at all a fan of the first time she was inadvertently part of a planned apocalypse. Does it count as an apocalypse if no one would’ve actually died? Even if it was basically the computer-driven destruction of all of human civilization? Or was it just like, an AI uprising or something? Jeremy would know. He’s been trying to update her on sci-fi stuff. She’s just a little slow on the details. She can’t keep all of the made up techno-babble straight.)

She’s not going to spontaneously combust or anything, either. Although that would be cool, and it has happened. Not to her, but it’s happened. And people still don’t know why. Wasn’t there that lady who self-creameated and her skull shrunk to the size of a teacup? That’s super morbid. Why does she know that? Maybe she will burst into flames, but not because of this. Not that she knows of, anyway.

Anyway, it’s not like she’s dying. Jeremy will ask questions, but he’s good about not asking too many. He’s a sweetheart. Christine really would’ve loved to see him today. Yeah, she saw him yesterday, but school’s not the same. Even play rehearsal, for all it’s virtues, isn’t the best place for alone time with your boyfriend, even if he is playing your love interest, and doing a stellar job, at that. Really, Christine is half-convinced that she’s actually falling for him all over again every day, just because he’s such a natural, and his character is actually so suave and he’s a dork but he pulls it off, and he’s doing such a great job, and _gosh_ , she loves it.

But as much as she loves him, it’s still weird to talk about this with him. It’s not like he’d _need_ to know. It’s not like with Brooke, whom Christine is really glad she’s gotten to know, who’s also just sweet and open and Christine can tell her all the things she can’t tell Jeremy (she can tell Jeremy a lot, but like, she can’t talk about _Jeremy_ with Jeremy, for instance). It’s not like with her parents. It’s not even like with just a general group of people. She’ll talk about it in the dressing room and stuff, but it would be _weird_ to tell Jeremy that she had to take a raincheck on their date for this. It’s just not the sort of thing she knows how to bring up. It’s not the sort of thing where she knows how he’d react. For all his sweet awkwardness and the inevitable weird reactions and weirder cover-ups, all of which she loves, he’s still a teenage boy, and teenage boys can all tend to be the same brand of stupid sometimes. And, yeah, maybe it’s that he can tend to think with his brain in his pants (Christine and Michael had a good laugh not too long ago over that one time where Jeremy apparently called Michael while doing his _business,_ and neither of them knew _why,_ but neither of them were surprised, either), which Christine usually likes to not think too hard about, because that’s _weird,_ and she’d really rather not get caught up on it right now in particular, because maybe if she thinks too hard about it, she’ll start to get ideas, and she does not need those sorts of ideas when there’s a certain soreness still grating on her.

Actually, all she wants to do right now is stop feeling like she’s been run over by a truck, and maybe shut her brain up, because she’s too physically worn out to want or need to soliloquize in her head anymore, so she throws her pajamas back on and climbs back into bed. If she’s unconscious, she can’t think about how uncomfortable she is, and hey, maybe she’ll wake up feeling better.

And, at this point, the ten minutes she spends rolling over and shifting and trying to position her limbs so nothing is constricting and so gravity can’t make things worse, well. Those ten minutes are basically just status quo.

* * *

Jeremy does everything he can to be a good boyfriend. Christine wakes up from her pain coma, this time feeling at least like she won’t puke up her guts, to a single text.

_Ok. Can I come over to take care of you or something?_

And it shouldn’t make her heart flutter. She should know at this point that Jeremy won’t let her suffer in silence. But still.

She types back, _Yeah, if you want. I threw up earlier, but I’m not contagious or anything._

After a less than pleasant bathroom visit, she collapses into bed again and slips into a doze. She’s awoken what feels like either hours or seconds later by a light rapping at the door.

“Yeah?” She blinks open her gummed-up eyes.

“Hey,” Jeremy says. “I really hope this is okay.”

“Yeah, you’re fine. I’m sorry I had to bail on you.”

“No! No, don’t sweat it. If you’re sick, you’re sick.” Jeremy perches on the edge of the bed, plastic shopping bag bouncing against the side of the mattress. “And it’s not like I’ve been any better, with all of my extra hospital visits and stuff.”

Jeremy had been released from the hospital shortly after waking up from his Squip-induced stupor, followed shortly by burn-scarred Rich. They were both fine. Fine is a relative term, of course, but they’re fine. They both still mention hearing things sometimes, Jeremy still stands up straighter than he needs to, Rich still flinches at his own voice when his lisp gets noticeable. Neither one of them will touch any kind of soda or breath mint. Still, they’re fine. Of course, that doesn’t mean that the doctors believe it. They have no clue what went wrong in these boys’ heads, so they keep calling them back for checkups. They still haven’t found anything. Weird, considering a supercomputer would probably show up on an MRI or CAT scan. What’s the difference exactly? Don’t they both basically cook your brain to take a picture of it? Haven’t Rich and Jeremy had enough weird crap buzzing about in their jello-filled skulls? Why does she keep thinking about skulls today?

“Anyway, I um… I brought you, like, soup and stuff? Ginger ale and saltines and all the stuff that’s supposed to help with an upset stomach.” Christine smiles, sitting up. She forces herself not to wince at the stabbing pain in her abdomen or the warm stickiness she’s sitting in. He really has no idea, does he?

“Thanks. I’m not sure how hungry I am, though.”

“Oh! Yeah, no, that’s fine. That makes sense. I just thought—”

“Jeremy,” Christine says,  “I’m really not sick. You don’t have to sound so worried.”

“But…” he squints a bit in his confusion, and Christine stiffles a giggle. His face is all scrunched up like Kermit the Frog, and it’s really adorable. She also breathes an internal sigh of relief at her lack of grumpy exhaustion. Thank goodness for Jeremy. If she was on her own, she’d probably be a moping mess who spends half the day trying to get comfortable, which she’s not right now, but that’s just because her pajama pants feel like they’ve shrunk around the waist somehow, even though they’re sagging enough to make it feel even more like she’s wearing a diaper, and she can’t quite tell if she’s too warm or too cold. Nothing too serious. “But you said you threw up?”

“Yeah. Usually I catch it and can take some painkillers before the cramps actually start, so they’re not so bad, but they were just extra rough today.” Maybe if she just hints at it, Jeremy will catch on and she won’t actually have to say it. It’s not that she minds telling him, she just doesn’t know how to _tell_ him.

“Cramps? Like… do you need to go to a doctor or something? Cramps don’t sound good.” Jeremy shifts to sit cross-legged in front of her on the bed. His eyes scan her like he expects her to turn green or break out in purple polka dots or grow horns. He’s biting his lip, ripping it apart with his teeth the way he does during quizzes in government class. Or any class, probably. Thinking too hard because he feels like he’s supposed to know. She’s just going to have to tell him.

“They’re not, but they’re super common. My body’s just punishing me for not having sex.”

“...What?”

Christine sighs. She can’t quite look at him anymore. It’s like someone shoved a magnetic field around her boyfriend that her gaze can’t enter. “I’m on my period, okay? That’s it. I’m sorry I got you freaking out over a thing I’ve been dealing with every month since sixth grade.”

“Oh.” Jeremy blinks, shoulders relaxing. “Oh!” He stiffens again, differently now, though.

“What?”

His eyes dart around, hands fumbling in his lap. “Is it okay that I’m here? Like, you’re not going to turn into a wolf and attack me or anything?”

Christine isn’t sure whether to laugh, scoff, or throw a pillow at him and storm out. Her limbs are too heavy to actually do anything. “Michael’s right. You are a furry.”

“Hey!”

“Have you ever taken a health class? What exactly do you think a period is?”

Jeremy relaxes again, though he’s still picking at the skin around his nails. “I, um… I know it’s a thing girls go through once a month, and I know that they can get like… angry, and I know that they usually want chocolate? And there’s like, a lot of blood involved.”

“And all that translated to _werewolf_ in your mind?”

“I don’t know! I’ve never like, actually been around a girl when it’s happening! How was I supposed to know the details?” He shifts backwards, no longer meeting her gaze.

“I promise you, you have. I was on my period when we went to see _Ant Man and the Wasp_ a few weeks ago.”

“You… what?”

“And I’ve lent pads and tampons to Brooke and Jenna plenty of times. At school. When you were around. Believe it or not, we don’t just carry those around for when Jake gets nosebleeds.” Jake gets really bad nosebleeds fairly often. As a joke, Chloe once told him to shove a tampon up his nose until it stopped. Now it’s a combination of a running gag and a legitimate solution.

“So… So why have I never noticed?” Jeremy, finally content that Christine won’t grow fur and rip his throat out, crawls to sit next to her. He still schools his stare towards the wall plastered in show posters.

“We usually don’t try to advertise it.”

“But it sounds like it sucks serious ass? How do you like, not complain?”

Christine snorts, followed by a slight wince and shifting of her weight as blood shoots out of her. “Believe me, we all want to.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Jeremy’s awkward nerves shine persistent like a stoplight in his eyes, but he’s trying. Christine’s chest goes warm at that. As does the space between her legs, and another squeezing pain clamps around her hips.

“Ugh, yeah. Wait here while I see if I actually need to go to the bathroom or if it’s a false alarm.” Christine unwinds herself from her bedsheets, throwing them away from their tangle about her legs. She shuffles towards the bathroom.

“How can you not know if you need to go to the bathroom or not?”

“Because,” she says, barely glancing back at Jeremy, “my underwear is full of blood and every muscle in the lower half of my body is squeezing itself into knots. I’m literally giving birth to the lining of one of my internal organs. I can’t tell what’s what down there right now.”

There’s the faintest sound of Jeremy muttering, “Holy shit,” behind her as she trudges to the toilet.

Luckily, there’s some more Advil in the bathroom, and she doesn’t immediately retch it back up this time. She returns to her room, still thoroughly uncomfortable (but what else is new?), to find Jeremy hunching over on the bed with brow furrowed at his phone.

“This says you get cravings?”

“Yeah,” Christine says, flopping next to him as gently as possible. Might as well answer his questions. Then maybe they can just cuddle and watch _Moulin Rouge_ or something. Or not, considering she’s already in enough of a scrambled mess trying to figure out how to situate her own limbs. She doesn’t really want to deal with someone else’s too. “It’s supposed to be chocolate for a lot of people, but I usually end up wanting bread and cheese and stuff. Cream cheese, most often, which has never been my favorite any other time of the month.” A mischievous grin crawls up to her mouth. “Don’t worry, though, they’re not like, uncontrollable cravings, and I won’t suddenly get a taste for human flesh and rip your throat out.” She walks a few fingers up Jeremy’s arm, which he watches with a quirked eyebrow and half-smile. Without warning, Christine grabs a fistful of his sweater and yanks him down closer to her. “Unless you’d like that?” She gives her best growl, and Jeremy’s face alights like Jake’s house on Halloween.

He flails away, voice skipping through squeaking stammers. “ _Christine!_ I—I am _not_ a—! I, just—shut up! You… I thought you said you weren’t a werewolf?”

Christine laughs. “I did, and I’m not.”

“Then wh— _why?”_ Jeremy winces at his violent voice crack.

“Haven’t you gotten to the sex hormone part of that Yahoo Answers page, yet?”

“I… You… Uh—” Christine gets a sudden image of the first conversation she’d ever had with Jeremy, the first time he’d walked into play rehearsal, and tried and failed to conceal the _very_ physical evidence of his crush on her. He hadn’t been able to form a coherent sentence then, either. She blinks up at him, trying to maintain an innocent smile. “We’ve never _done_ anything like that.”

“Oh, I know. And I’m not saying I want to anytime soon, sorry. You know I’m a traditionalist about that and kinda want to wait until marriage and stuff. Bleeding out an egg doesn’t change that. Besides, I’m in a lot of pain, remember? I don’t want anything down there right now, no offense. And it would be _so_ messy. But that doesn’t mean part of me isn’t itching for it. Blame mother nature.”

“I—um…” Jeremy makes a strangled noise. Christine’s smirk relaxes.

“Don’t worry. I just wanted to see you squirm. I thought it was funny.”

Jeremy swallows. “I, um… yeah, okay. So, um… _are_ you okay? Like, you sure there’s nothing I can do? Besides the. You know.”

“I want to sleep and I want to go on an adventure and I want to go spend the rest of the day on the toilet. I want to eat and I also never want to look at food again. I don’t want to move but I can’t possibly stay like this, because _everything_ hurts. I want you to touch me and I want you to _touch_ me, and I want to be left all alone somewhere dark and cool and quiet. I want to stop talking and stop thinking. I want to talk about everything I can possibly think of. I want to cuddle and I want to curl up in my own yarn ball of suffering, floating through space where nothing can come near me. I want to not have to worry about getting blood everywhere, because I always end up getting it somewhere no matter what I do. I don’t even know what I want anymore. Just carve my uterus out already.” Christine stares at the ceiling, hating the pressure on her abdomen and the trickling itch around her legs. She hates her body for hurting and she hates her brain for being as jumbled and indecisive as a cast party pizza order.

“Um…”

Christine closes her eyes. “I love you, Jeremy. I’m glad you’re here. I don’t care what you do or what we do. I can deal.”

After a beat, Jeremy slides down to lay next to her. He hooks his fingers with hers. She’s not sure if she likes it or not in the moment, but she definitely wouldn’t pick any other guy to be here right now. “What would you be doing if I hadn’t come over?” he says after a pregnant pause. Oh, sure, the pause can be pregnant, but because she’s not, Christine has to suffer. Eh, whatever. Getting pregnant just to stop bleeding for nine months would be really dumb. Pregnancy has so many more things going on than just getting out of the period.

“Probably go back to sleep. Maybe watch a movie. And I really probably should eat something, even if I don’t want to.”

Jeremy squeezes her hand. “Netflix and soup?”

“You said you brought Saltines too, right?”

“Netflix and crackers works too,” Jeremy says, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. He sits up to lean over the bed for the food and laptop.

“And if you want, if you’re okay with it, I actually really like the idea of you petting my hair or something right now. I don’t know. Maybe because it would be a way to be close to you without having to figure out how to cuddle when Lucifer’s Waterfall is pouring out of me. It’s random and you don’t have to, but it would be nice.” Christine mumbles her request under her breath, not sure if it’s weird to ask, barely even aware that she’s asking at all, because it really is random and she’s not sure why her bloody brain thinks it’s a good idea, and she’s starting to feel the heaviness of sleep drape over her again. She’s not going to be able to eat very many of those crackers. When Jeremy complies, running his fingers through what must be awful bedhead, her sound of pleasure—just a little hum to say “thanks”—comes out as a purr.

“Who’s the furry now?” She can hear the smirk in Jeremy’s voice.

“Shut up and pamper me before I go all werewolf on your ass.”

**Author's Note:**

> So I was bleeding when I started this and needed to vent. I also need more fluffy Stagedorks in general. Jeremy may be an idiot, but he's a well-meaning idiot who cares for his girlfriend however he knows how.  
> Loosely based on a true story. At least the first part is. A note to those who've never had a shedding uterus: it's awful in a ton of ways you'd never think it would be. I meant to have more mention of the constant paranoia of leaking blood everywhere, but it didn't really happen.  
> Oh, I also do have a friend who's stuck tampons up his nose to stop nosebleeds. I thought that was a fun detail to add.  
> I'm sorry if Jeremy is a little too clueless to be realistic. I can't say I've ever really discussed this sort of thing with someone who hasn't and won't experience it themselves, so I don't know how much he might actually know.


End file.
